Witness of Bones

by Leonard Tourney

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “I swear to heaven, mistress,” Jack said, his face coloring a little. His eyes darted from her face to Morgan’s and then back again. “I never found any book that I can recall.”

  “Did you look for one?” Morgan said.

  “No, why should I? I can’t read.”

  “Yet you know a book when you see it,” Morgan said.

  “Yes, sir.”

  Joan heard the boy’s voice tremble. She could see by the rise and fall of his chest that he was breathing deeply to control his fear, and that he was more fearful of Morgan than of her.

  “I’d be willing to pay generously for its return,” Joan said.

  Jack looked at the innkeeper, at Morgan, and then back at Joan. Joan caught in his hesitation a glimpse of the truth. Now she knew she was right. The boy was considering his choices. Money was to be had for the book but would it be enough to make up for the loss of his employment? Surely, the stern innkeeper would want no confessed thief and liar in his employ. Jack would be lucky to escape a beating, and he couldn’t be sure he’d get the reward offered for the book.

  “Where do you keep your treasures?” Joan asked.

  “My treasures?”

  “Things you find, baubles. You’re a boy. You must find things. All boys do. I’m not accusing you of stealing. But if someone finds a lost article in the street, he might keep it. What’s the proverb—finders keepers? Your chest contains naught but clothes.”

  “What’s wrong with that?” Jack asked, his tone suddenly insolent.

  “I think you’ve hidden the book, along with your own treasures,” Joan said.

  “I don’t know what you speak of, mistress,” Jack said.

  Joan thought he had the same guilty look he had when he had betrayed her before. “I think you do. My guess is that you search the chambers when guests have left, looking for what they may have left behind. And more, I think, you know every chink and crevice in that chamber and have found things concealed there before that were not yours.”

  “I’m honest, Master Terrance,” Jack said, looking to the innkeeper. “Must I hear this?”

  “You will listen for the nonce,” the innkeeper said. “Go on, mistress, ask him these questions, for I begin myself to smell a greater fault in him than ever I smelled before.” Joan looked around the cavernous loft. The light radiating from the hostler’s lantern left much of it in shadows. Morgan must have read her mind. He said, “Will you show us where you hid the diary, or must we tear every board from its place? If we find you lied it will go very bad with you.”

  Morgan underscored his threat by going directly to Jack and seizing him by the collar.

  “Don’t hurt me, masters,” he wailed. “You may have the book.”

  “Where is it?” Morgan demanded.

  “I’ll show you, just let me go, will you?”

  Morgan released him but kept close by. “Show us, you young thief.”

  “I’m not a thief,” Jack protested. “I only found the book after. I thought to sell it at some bookstall, but hadn't time to take it.”

  Jack’s hiding place was not far from his bed. He knelt down by the mattress as though he were about to pray but pried up a loose board in the floor instead. Morgan pushed him aside and reached down.

  It was just such a collection as Joan had imagined although somewhat more extensive, consisting of coins, a small mirror with the glass cracked, a string of beads, and a leather-bound book Joan recognized as Graham’s diary.

  “That’s it,” she said, drawing closer to see. “Thank God he had not time to sell it or we might have spent our lives searching the bookstalls.”

  Morgan handed the diary to Joan, and at the same moment she heard the sound of running. She looked up in time to see Jack vanishing into the darkness.

  “Stop him,” Morgan cried to the innkeeper, who also seemed to have been taken by surprise at Jack’s sudden escape.

  The host hurried after him, but so corpulent a man could not be expected to overtake a boy fleeing for his life.

  “It’s all well he’s gone,” Joan said, clutching the diary to her breast. “We have what we wanted. The boy has a larcenous spirit. If he escapes the rope today, he will meet it tomorrow or the day after. Come, it’s late. This has been the longest day of my life, and I have yet to show this diary to Sir Robert.”

  Cecil House was so dark as to seem uninhabited, but Joan managed to raise a serving man with her pounding and needed only to mention her name before she and Morgan were let in. Despite the lateness of the hour and his anxiety about meeting the queen’s principal secretary, Joan insisted that he accompany her. She wanted Cecil to meet her rescuer.

  They were shown into the same downstairs parlor where she had spoken to Cecil before but had to wait nearly a half an hour before Cecil appeared. He was garbed in a dressing gown of silk and his eyes were heavy with sleep, but seeing Joan he went directly to her, grasped her by both hands, and said, “Thanks be to God for your deliverance. When we heard you were taken, we supposed the worst.”

  Joan introduced Morgan as one without whom she would have experienced just such a fate as Cecil supposed, and then lost no time in filling Cecil in on what had happened since her abduction. Cecil listened without comment except for an occasional remark of wonder or anger. At the conclusion of her narrative, she showed him Stephen Graham’s diary, and more particularly the page she had noted.

  He read leisurely, perhaps, Joan thought, twice over, then turned to the pages preceding and still later to those following before saying anything. During these few minutes, Joan began to have her first doubts as to the significance of her find. She exchanged glances with Morgan. Since entering the great house, he had seemed overwhelmed by its splendor and its owner’s name. He had bowed awkwardly when Cecil had thanked him for his services and said they should not be forgotten. Now he seemed as concerned as Joan, or perhaps that was only her imagination.

  “We may have motive here,” Cecil said, stroking his beard thoughtfully. “That my undoing is the ultimate aim of this mischief is already established. The question has been who. Now here this good man writes of his nomination as bishop. And true, the queen was considering his candidacy.”

  “Elspeth Morgan said a new bishop had been chosen but did not remember his name,” Joan said.

  “Peter Wilks. Dr. Wilks is dean of Windsor and has been offered the bishopric of Worcester, although doubtless he would prefer London or Durham. The family is well connected They were supporters of Lord Essex before his fall, but escaped guilt in that foolish lord’s rebellion. Bitter enemies of mine, I might add, because of my opposition to Peter’s brother as attorney general ten years past.”

  “Could this conspirator be the brother, then?”

  “Sir Thomas Wilks? Possibly. Old grievances such as his die hard. The Wilkses are an ambitious breed. Even the clergymen among them have the temperament of wolves.” “But the queen appointed another, not you,” Joan said. Cecil smiled pleasantly and laughed a little. “The governing of England is more complicated than you suppose, Joan. It’s true the queen appoints in both Church and in state, yet her counselors have her ear. For that reason I spend much of my time answering the pleas of those who would crawl into some niche in the order of things—God’s or man’s. So therefore while the queen’s decisions are entirely her own, she harkens to me—and to others. And for what patronage we supply we are both blessed or cursed by our clients, depending upon their success. Had Wilks been appointed attorney general rather than Sir Thomas Egerton, whom I favored, he would have declared himself in my everlasting debt. Instead, I earned his hatred. The Essex matter did not make matters better between us.”

  “Was Stephen Graham murdered then only because he was in the way of a bishopric, which another cleric wanted for himself? Are you traduced and my husband imprisoned for this?” Joan exclaimed, feeling outrage swell within her.

  “Oh, Joan, I could tell you tales that would curdle
your blood and make your faith pale. These bishoprics are not empty dignities. They mean money—and power. You take the see of Worcester. It remained vacant for years, it being so poor that no one would take it. Durham is the fatter calf by far, and London a pregnant sow with enough meat on her bones to feed a hundred ambitious men. The deviousness of an ambitious dean or archdeacon or even eloquent preacher is not to be underestimated. They will plead and bribe and threaten and keep a foot in every camp to secure their success. Believe me I have seen it done.”

  “In such a world how is my poor husband to fare then?” Joan asked.

  Her question caused a change in Cecil’s countenance. Where he spoke confidently before of politics, he now seemed hesitant and sad, as though he were harboring a secret grief.

  “What has happened to Matthew?” she said, almost fearing his answer.

  Cecil frowned, hesitated a moment, then said, “Matthew has been taken from the Marshalsea. I have not been able to determine where. The officials of the prison profess to be in darkness as to his whereabouts. The last of my men to speak to him has been proved a traitor, who gave him to believe I had forsaken him. I have men searching the city but so far they have found nothing.”

  The word turned her to stone. She felt struck at the heart and as dead as Poole. She could hardly bring herself to ask, “You don’t think they’ve killed him?”

  “Surely not,” Cecil said. “They need him alive to testify against me.”

  She thought for a while, her fear not subsiding. Then she asked, “This traitor you mentioned, he who misrepresented you. Did he work for your enemy? Surely, if you found him out he could tell you who gave him orders.”

  Cecil shook his head sadly. “He didn’t know himself. A cousin put him up to it, paying him but not mentioning the name of him who would ultimately benefit. I am having the cousin’s house watched. As yet nothing has been observed but ordinary comings and goings.”

  “This cousin has no connection with Sir Thomas Wilks?” “None that has been observed.”

  “Or with any other of your enemies?”

  “I have not enough men to watch such a multitude,” Cecil said. “There’s a meeting of the Privy Council on Friday. It’s possible that charges will be laid against me then. They’re keeping Matthew out of sight until the last moment. Surprise is better than a troop. This is a sort of war without drum or cannon but also mortal.”

  “Then you don’t think he’s in danger in the meantime?” she said.

  “No, but I am. Yet this diary you’ve brought is a great help. We know that this Stearforth and Motherwell, the sexton, are instruments. It is not improbable that Sir Thomas Wilks is the father of this plot. This diary is valuable, but no conclusive proof. Yet it points true like the needle of a compass.” “What can I do now? I must do something/’ Joan said. “Both of you can help. You both know this Stearforth and Motherwell too. It’s likely that they are still up to their necks in this plot. We do not know where Stearforth lies, but the sexton lives at the church. Go there under some guise and watch for Motherwell. I understand St. Crispin’s remains the resort of pilgrims wanting to see the empty tomb. You may use the crowd to your own advantage. Besides the conspirators think you’re in France—or dead. They won’t be watching for you now. See where the sexton goes and with whom. He may lead us to Stearforth and Stearforth to Matthew. Chances are they plan to have him confess to the murder and name me as the promoter. Matthew himself may be brought before the council.”

  “Matthew would never confess to what he never did.”

  “He might—if your death were the alternative. Remember, as far as he knows you are still a prisoner. I could not blame Matthew if he succumbed to such a threat. A wife must come before a friend in such dealings.”

  “But should he confess under such a threat, what of you? I’m thinking of the council. And would not Matthew be hanged anyway?”

  “Let’s not talk of hanging,” Cecil said, rising to signal they had had enough of talk. “As for the council, I welcome the discovery of these conspirators and their devious stratagems. Let them show their faces, declare themselves openly, I shall speak the truth—and shame the devil. You were their prisoner before who are now free. That’s an advance for our side. If we can find Matthew and make him aware that your life is no longer threatened, we may undermine the plot entirely. I’m of the same mind as you, Joan. Matthew would never confess to a crime he did not commit without a threat of violence against you.”

  Cecil summoned the servant who had brought them into the house and ordered him to provide chambers for Joan and Morgan. “Tonight you will be my guests,” Cecil said. “Sleep. The climax to these proceedings is yet to come. Tomorrow make your pilgrimage to St. Crispin’s.”

  Cecil returned to his bed, but not to sleep. He had slept fitfully before Joan’s unexpected arrival. He knew his own ways: now he would lie awake in the darkness, his mind as busy as in the daylight, his body as stiff and immobile as an effigy on a tomb.

  He had spoken to Joan bravely about confronting his accusers. But the truth was that he was afraid. The historical moment was not propitious for such confrontations, not when so much hung in the balance. Not with James Stewart watching hawklike from his impoverished northern kingdom, listening for the second the queen’s heart should stop and he should swoop down upon the throne and riches of England. And whom should he choose for his counselors? Cecil had taken infinite pains to ingratiate himself with the monarch to come, as he had spent all his energy to please the monarch that was. He had corresponded in secret, advised, pledged, knowing at the same time the little Scotsman was a cunning fellow, politically astute and no more trusting of Cecil than Cecil would be of him. Politics made friendship difficult. Royal service made mutual trust impossible. But it was the world Robert Cecil had chosen. What else was a little hunchback to do? He had been devious enough for the church, but too passionate. Politics was in his blood, as it had been in his father’s.

  Yet all his effort could be lost in a few minutes by the charges that he had ordered the murder of a churchman, promoted the martyrdom of a saint, offered his support to the royal claims of the Infanta.

  On the face of it, the charges were absurd. But by such charges, good men and true had exposed their necks to the executioner’s ax. Would he share the fate of Essex?

  Cecil rolled to his side. He thought of his dead wife, and felt a loneliness so profound that he groaned as though his heart had been seized with a physical pain.

  Nineteen

  Stearforth shook Matthew roughly, as he might have shaken a nodding apprentice. What hour must it be, Matthew wondered, sensing it was not yet dawn. He had dreamed of being in prison again, dreamed of his cellmate who had been marched off to hang. The dream had been so real it still clung to him, confusing him about where he was and with whom.

  Stearforth’s voice came again, commanding him to awake. Matthew remembered where he was. Buck was also in the room, standing by the door, watching. Buck had become more sober since his days as Matthew’s counselor in the Marshalsea. His witty manner had been replaced with a sullen melancholy. Matthew had noticed a friction between him and Stearforth, as though they were competing with each other for the attention of His Grace. That’s the way it was: in the pursuit of favor there could be no equals. Matthew wanted none such tricks of the courtier’s trade.

  “Where are we going?” His tongue was still thick from sleep, and his own voice sounded strange.

  “Nevermind. You’ll see soon enough. Get dressed,” Stearforth said. “Don’t give us any trouble—not if you want to see that wife of yours again.”

  Matthew rose, put on his clothes, while the two men watched. Before his attempt to send a letter to Cecil through Michael Hickes they had regarded him with grudging respect, as a recruit to the plot in which he was the essential element. Since then, he had been treated as a traitor.

  When Matthew finished dressing, Stearforth said, “This morning you will show certain officers where y
ou laid the bones of Christopher Poole.”

  “Where I—?”

  “You will go where I tell you to go and will say nothing. You have confessed to the murder. We have that in your own writing. Now you will seal your confession by producing the bones you dug up to further your Jesuitical plot.”

  “But I have no idea where—”

  Stearforth cut him off. “This you will do because you love your wife. If you say anything to contradict your confession she will be killed. Is that plainspoken enough?”

  “It’s plain,” Matthew said.

  Downstairs were more men. Matthew recognized Sir Thomas Bendlowes, the magistrate who had ordered him to prison. There were also two sheriff’s men. One manacled and blindfolded him.

  Then he was made to sit alone in an unheated anteroom for what seemed several hours while he could hear the mumble of voices from an adjacent chamber.

  Finally, they came for him again. He was led outside and placed upon a horse. The little company rode in silence through the streets for about a quarter of an hour before the blindfold was removed and Matthew could see that they were near St. Paul’s. It was now about seven o’clock, he judged. The streets were full of people, walking, riding. The little company rode slowly. He felt he was in some sort of ceremonial procession, and his manacles caught the attention of passersby, who looked up and then away again. The transporting of prisoners was not that uncommon a sight in London, and the authorities delighted in making their transport highly visible, both to humiliate the prisoner and to deter other malefactors.

  When they came to St. Crispin’s Matthew noticed that the number of pilgrims who had come to the new shrine had increased from his first visit. They had formed a long line along the street in front of the church, pressing themselves against the iron railing that separated the churchyard from the street, as though even a glance at the sacred precincts would work a miracle. Where before the crowd seemed made up by the idly curious, these seemed more believing. They were not boisterous but stood in reverential quiet, looking through the iron gates, trying to glimpse the place where Poole’s body had lain before its resurrection.